


Break Step On Two

by Berty



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray Kowalski is a man of simple pleasures - he knows those are the one's he's most likely to get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Step On Two

He's all set.

He's ready, Freddie.

He's a happy man. Well, as happy as a thirty-six year old single cop with a turtle and an insane partner can be. He might not have a love life, or a social life or a… life, but what he _does_ have is cold beer, a night off, a right hand and porn.

And he is a man of simple pleasures. Ray is wise enough to know those are the ones he's most likely to get.

So. A happy man.

He reaches for the remote, unbuttons for…. expediency, yeah, that's the word, expediency, and he's getting ready to spend some quality time with his palm when there's a knock at the door.

Fraser would say that the timing is unfortunate.

Ray? Is not so polite.

"Fuck."

He thinks about ignoring it, but knows from the deliberate but apologetic tone of the knocking - and who knew knocking could have a goddamn _tone?_ \- that it's Fraser outside.

Normally, that is of the good. Him and Fraser, they're good, they're tight. That social life he doesn't have? Fraser is pretty much the only exception. He can't help himself - to know Fraser is to love him, and Ray knows Fraser. A lot.

Ray thought that working together would have gotten him enough of Fraser's freakishness; a man can only take so much Canadian, you know? But along with the freakishness, Fraser is also good company, generous, interesting (if you ignore the depressing stories about doomed adventurers) and funny with a wit so dry you could die of thirst.

Ray kicks the video case under the couch, buttons up and saunters over to the door, rolling his eyes when Fraser knocks again.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Give me a…" But the words dry up the instant he finds Lieutenant Welsh on his doorstep and Fraser behind him at parade rest with a kind of rueful look on his face.

Rueful. Expediency.

He must be absorbing Canadian just hanging around with the Mountie. He'll have to watch out for that.

"Good evening, Detective," Welsh rumbles. It's nothing new that the Lieu doesn't look happy, but tonight he looks deeply pissed, like he's gotten a brand new ulcer to add to his collection.

"Sir. Fraser. What's going on?"

Ray shoots another glance over the Welsh's shoulder at Frase. He's looking uncomfortable, but not worried, so that's good news: it's not one of _those_ visits.

"Does something _need_ to be going on, Vecchio? Is it beyond the realms of possibility that I might have been passing and suddenly craved your sparkling wit and amusing company?"

"Yes. Wait…no." Ray thinks about it for a second, his brain still struggling with the abrupt change in the evening's schedule. "What was the question again?"

"We're here to seek your help with something of a favour, Ray," Fraser says quickly as Welsh's eyebrows creep even lower over his eyes.

"Favour?"

"Yes, Ray. May we come in? It's rather delicate."

Ray steps back and waits for the Lieutenant to stomp past him before he makes a WTF face at Fraser. Fraser simply widens his eyes at Ray, as if that's any clue. Unhelpful, Ray thinks as he shuts the door and follows them into the living room. Very unhelpful.

"Where's the wolf?" Ray asks. Fraser takes the furball everywhere, and Ray has to admit that he's a little disappointed not to have the distraction of Dief eyeing up Turtle.

Fraser takes off his coat and hangs it up with his hat on the peg by the door. "Ah, he felt his presence wouldn't really be beneficial, so he's taken himself off to the end of the street. Apparently there's a Doberman there with whom he's struck up something of a rapport."

Ray nods, remembering a time when a conversation like this would have meant that it was time to stop drinking. "So… what can I do for you?" he asks, clearing a space on the coffee table, so he can plant his butt there. He waits while Welsh takes off his coat and lowers himself distrustfully to the couch.

Welsh steeples his fingers and purses his lips, but seems unwilling to let Ray in on the secret, so Ray looks up at Fraser, who's still waiting to be invited to sit.

"Ah, well, the Lieutenant approached me earlier today with regard to acquiring some skills for an upcoming social event," Fraser reports earnestly. "As soon as I understood the nature of the required skills, I realised that you, having superior knowledge, would be a more profitable option for…"

"I need you to teach me to dance," Welsh interrupts loudly and with a long-suffering grimace.

Ray laughs, because that's the best one he's heard since Huey told him about Dewey and the Xerox machine, but he bites it off fast when neither Welsh nor Fraser join in.

"Seriously?" he asks, scooting back and dislodging a pile of _TV Guides_.

Fraser nods and the Lieutenant wipes a meaty hand across his mouth and looks dyspeptic.

"My ex-wife is getting married next week. She wants me to be there, but they're having a live band and dancing." He almost spits the word. "She knows I can't…" Welsh looks at him with the kind of determined gaze Ray's only ever seen him use on the last donut in the box. He levels a finger at Ray. "Nothing fancy. Just enough so I don't make an idiot of myself."

Ray must look kind of shocked, because when he glances back to Fraser again, the Mountie looks concerned. "I immediately thought of you, Ray," he assures him, and the smile he flashes is so damned proud. Ray doesn't know if that's proud of himself for thinking of it or proud of Ray for having a skill. Any skill.

Ray turns back to the Lieutenant, still a little dazzled by the smile. "What kind of dancing?" he asks, cautiously.

"The kind where you hold someone of the opposite sex and move rhythmically to music."

Ray smiles tightly. "What? Disco? Ballroom? Latin? Ballet?"

"Detective…" Welsh growls.

"I believe Francesca was able to lend the Lieutenant a recording of his ex-wife's favourite artist," Fraser offers, obviously thinking he's being helpful.

Welsh fishes in his pocket for a minute and, with poor grace, produces a CD case.

Ray takes the box and looks at the cover. Michael Bublé. Ray has heard of this guy - he's some kind of Sinatra wannabe. He stifles a grin and scans the titles. There are some tunes he recognises, and while it's not exactly his style, he thinks he can work with it.

"Okay, but don't blame me if this doesn't work. I'm not really teacher material and not everybody can dance, even with some training. " Ray looks across at Fraser again and he quirks an eyebrow at him before he turns back to Welsh. "And you know there _are_ classes you could…"

"No time, Detective."

"Okay, then." There is no escape. He's just going to have to get it over with. "We're gonna need some space."

Ray doesn't realise the danger until they have a creditable dance floor in the middle of his living room and Fraser's bending his knees (in textbook fashion) to push back the couch.

Like an idiot, Ray virtually jumps on him. "Fraser, no! It's heavy. Let me get that…"

Fraser looks up at Ray in confusion as the couch slides easily back against the desk.

"Your back! You need to be careful," Ray mumbles, but it's too late, and Fraser's eyes have already been drawn down to the garish video case now out in plain sight. Ray thinks that maybe if he can get to it first, Fraser won't realise what it is, but the image on the front is pretty big and pretty graphic. And entirely male.

Fraser's eyes flick quickly up to Ray's, and there's no mistaking the surprise. Because not only has he been caught, practically in the act of some self-loving, but he's also just made an unexpectedly huge announcement about the kind of guy he is and what it is he likes.

Fraser bends down, picks up the box and holds it out to Ray without a word. He won't meet Ray's eyes, and even in the crappy light of the living room it's pretty obvious that he is blushing.

With a hammering in his chest and a sick feeling in his guts, Ray snatches the case and takes it into his bedroom. He wants to throw it at the wall and grind it into a thousand pieces, but he knows the noise will alert the Lieutenant to the fact that something has gone drastically wrong on planet Kowalski. He settles for throwing it into the drawer by his bed and slamming it shut.

Ray can feel that his face is burning the same way that Fraser's is out there, and he knows that if he's going to make it through the rest of the evening, he needs to pull his shit together like never before. So before he walks back in, he takes a minute to breathe and shake it out, in between cursing himself out for being a fuckwit.

Welsh is still trying to make the stereo work and Fraser… Fraser is standing by the window, looking down at the crappy, sodium-lit street outside. He has his arms crossed and Ray isn't even going to try to decode the look on his face. Then he glances up and notices Ray, standing like a dick in his bedroom doorway.

God bless him, Fraser doesn't look away or get an expression on his face like Ray's a fucking pervert or something. He seems thoughtful, like he's working something out. Finally he uncrosses his arms and straightens up. He opens his mouth to say something at exactly the moment that the Lieutenant finds the right button and they are treated to a full, overblown orchestral intro at about three hundred decibels.

Welsh finds the volume and dials it down with an apologetic wince, but by the time Ray looks back at Fraser, the moment has passed and he's moving to take over DJ duties from the Lieu.

Ray pops his neck and walks to the middle of the room to attempt to achieve two impossible things tonight - teach Welsh to move like something other than a constipated rhino, and find a way to explain to his partner why he has gay porn under his couch.

"Okay, the first thing is your stance."

It's clear after ten minutes that Ray is no teacher, Welsh is no natural, and if they had a whole _year_ it wouldn't be long enough for him to learn to impress his ex-wife or whateverthefuck this whole thing is about. It's also pretty plain to Ray that he's never wanted to be alone more than he does right now. He's positive he can feel Fraser's eyes boring into the back of his head, trying to figure him out, trying to find a way to mesh what he knows about Ray as a friend with the new things he's learned about him tonight.

And Ray can't deal with that. Cannot deal. Does not want to deal.

If there's a conversation that needs to happen - the one where Fraser hands him his ass on a platter and waves over his shoulder as he disappears out of his life forever - then Ray would rather not wait. Ray has never been good at waiting, and dancing, or trying to dance, while all that shit is waiting to land at his feet is just about impossible.

When he's stepped on Ray's foot for the eighth time, Welsh calls a halt. "I can't see what it is you're doing, Vecchio," Welsh bitches, like it's Ray's fault he has to hold his fucking boss and manhandle him around his apartment.

Ray steps back with relief and wipes his damp hands down his jeans. "It's not about seeing, it's about _feeling_," Ray bleats in his defence.

"No offence, Detective, but the only feeling I'm getting is heartburn." Welch plops himself down on the couch and mops his pink face with a big, white handkerchief.

"It's all a matter of confidence, sir," Ray tells him, rubbing at his toes - he should definitely have put on a pair of shoes for this. "If you're confident, you project that to your partner, and they trust you. It's not about what steps you know, it's about making your partner feel safe, like they know what's coming next. Getting some rapport going."

Welsh gives him a bland expression, then frowns. "Your partner, huh?"

"Yep. It's all about them."

"So how about you _show_ me that, Vecchio. You can dance with Constable Fraser here; you two have more rapport than is probably healthy, if your incidental damage bills are to be believed."

Ray doesn't have to look over to know that Fraser has gone stiff. "No good, sir. Fraser can't dance," Ray grins, pouring his everything into teeth and attitude.

Welsh leans toward Ray, and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Neither can I. That would be why we're here."

Right.

Ray nods. "Fraser?" He doesn't look away from the Lieu; he can't. If he has to see the look of horror on Fraser's face, that will be it for the Kowalski calm.

Ray can feel Fraser walk out of the shadows and into the space they created. He moves quietly to stand behind Ray, waiting.

Ray takes a deep breath and turns, stressed out and jittery. Fraser looks at him for a moment, determined and serious, and then drops to the floor.

And that's the _last_ thing Ray needs - a real life visual of Fraser going to his knees in front of him. For a guy who'd been primed not thirty minutes ago for a little alone time, it's a baby step from thinking about Fraser's face at groin height to thinking about all the interesting things it could do while it's there.

It takes Ray a few oxygenless seconds to realise that what Fraser's _actually_ doing is taking off his hiking boots and placing them neatly out of the way, but it's no good; the adrenaline in his system has spiked and he's getting hard and sweating like a freak when Fraser takes his place in front of him again.

Fraser cracks his neck and looks uncomfortable, and Ray isn't sure if that's reluctance or embarrassment or what, but he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and seems to pull himself together. He moves into Ray's arms purposefully, taking his hand and placing his palm on Ray's shoulder without hesitation.

Ray has to bite back a grunt of… something. Pleasure? Excitement? He gets a sick, twisty feeling in his guts - he hasn't been at this end of Fraser on duty since their first day as partners. That the Mountie doesn't want to do this, and that Ray is getting off on it regardless, is doing things to Ray's head. Bad things.

Fraser is more like Ray's height than the Lieutenant, so they come to the next problem: that mouth. That smart, polite, slightly crooked, multi-lingual, and very, very pretty mouth of Fraser's is at exactly the same height as Ray's. Now Ray can move through anything - he was _born_ dancing - but that mouth, a couple of inches from his own is as distracting as all fuck.

Ray looks away, looks down, looks anywhere but at Fraser's face. He isn't sure, but he thinks that Fraser is doing the same thing, probably looking at the wall behind him, or the ceiling or something.

Making a huge effort, Ray swallows and tries to pull some professionalism out of somewhere. "Okay, so like I was saying, the whole thing about leading is that you have to be obvious, you have to tell your partner what is about to happen next with your movements, with your body. It's like… like the opposite of boxing, you have to telegraph your intentions to give your partner the chance to react."

Ray glances at Fraser who nods stiffly, all angles and rigidity and Mountie earnestness. He's hating every minute of this, Ray can tell. Fraser's not big on the touching thing, something Ray learned early on. He tolerates it from Ray, because Ray? He's a touchy kind of guy, always has been; his parents had never been afraid of showing affection and even the natural Stella frostiness had been thawed for a little while by some enthusiastic Kowalski hugging.

"Sir, would you mind?" Ray nods at the CD player and Welsh stabs at the play button with fingers not made for such tiny technology.

A mellow, easy intro floats out of the speakers and cranks up the Fraser discomfort level to bone snapping intensity. Ray feels him straighten his spine, a subtle shifting of muscle beneath his palm, but he doesn't have time to think about it, because he's counting them in and on the first beat of the next bar they move, perfectly together, perfectly in time.

The first thing that strikes Ray is that it is too easy. Even in his unnaturally rigid state, even not looking at Ray's face, even keeping the distance between them at a steady eight inches, Fraser is reacting to Ray's cues. And okay, Ray's making them pretty heavy-handed and obvious, but there's no hesitation on Fraser's part, he follows like he's just another part of Ray's body.

Ray suddenly remembers why they're here and tries to explain. "So, if I want him to step back, I push with my hand and show with my shoulders that we're..."

Fraser steps back on the beat, and Ray follows him, adjusting the distance between them, not daring to look if Fraser has noticed that Ray's overrun their unspoken no-fly zones for a few seconds there.

"And if I want him to follow me back, I pull gently on his waist…" Ray exaggerates the beat with his body, leaning in before he steps away, pressing his hand to Fraser's back and steering him. Fraser steps into Ray, and Ray nods in encouragement.

"If we're turning, I push with this hand and steer on his waist. If I'm spinning him out, I push him away hard and…"

And Fraser follows. Every move Ray makes. Even the ones he doesn't announce first. Even the ones he sneaks in to bring Fraser closer for a second. And slowly, _slowly_ Fraser begins to loosen up, his shoulders dropping until he's actually dancing with Ray, really dancing, moving independently, but still following Ray's lead. Until he's actually _hearing_ the music, reading Ray's body and reacting to it.

And just like that, Fraser's pushing boundaries of his own. No matter how Ray tries to keep their bodies from touching anywhere other than where it is strictly necessary, it seems like Fraser is finding a way to get closer; a brush at the hip, an adjustment of the hand at Ray's shoulder that snakes further onto his neck, holding him tighter, his cheek close enough to Ray's for him to turn his head and kiss him.

Ray has obviously been watching too many of those videos. He's reading stuff that isn't there into Fraser's brave attempt at dancing. The guy is just trying to stay upright and learn, adding a little of himself to the mix, and Ray and his sick little mind are overlaying some pretty private and specific fantasies of his own over the whole thing.

Because, to tell the truth, Fraser stars in quite a few of Ray's private scenarios. When the idea of porn is just too cheesy, when he knows that he's so close already that all he needs is to close his eyes and touch, or sometimes when he just can't stop himself, it's Fraser's face he imagines, Fraser's big hands, Fraser's soft mouth, Fraser's hard body.

It is only when the track finishes that Ray realises he hasn't said anything in a while.

"See?" he croaks unconvincingly, stepping away from the warm pull of Fraser's arms for a second. "Now you try."

The first bars of something classic come on and Fraser changes his hands over and steps back into Ray's space, so his left hand is grasping Ray's and his right is on Ray's back.

Ray wishes he was wearing something more substantial than a thin t-shirt, because he's hyper-aware of Fraser's warmth through the cotton, leeching into his skin. Fraser spreads his fingers slightly and it feels to Ray, in his distracted state, like a caress. It's all Ray can do not to groan at how good it is to be held by him.

It's a mistake to look at Fraser's face. Ray knows this a second too late, because now he's caught. Fraser's expression has an intensity to it, and he might be counting beats, he might be concentrating really hard, but Ray doesn't think so. He's looking at him directly. Openly. Honestly. All the things Ray thinks he's been imagining, all the things that he can't possibly have been seeing are right there on Fraser's face.

And, if Fraser's expression is anything to go by, the same damn thing is written all over Ray's face too.

Ray knows this is insane. His boss is standing not six feet away from them, but he could have the Pope, the President and his mother there as an audience, and he still wouldn't be able to drag his eyes away from Fraser's. He has the sudden overwhelming sense that this is something big. Something important. Maybe the biggest, most important thing that has happened to him in years and that's the reason he hasn't seen it before - he's been looking for the little stuff, a smile here, some eye-contact there, but never… this… big picture. In fact Ray can't quite believe it isn't some kind of hard-on induced dream - that he's really just snoring on his couch with his hand down his shorts, passed out before the money shot.

But Fraser's hand is there on his back, grounding him, his thumb rubbing a little, his arm pulling Ray in closer than he's shown him, his eyes on Ray's mouth.

Michael Bublé is singing something slow, about 'you think you know me well' and 'I'm just a friend, that's all I've ever been' and Ray is utterly lost, letting Fraser lead him around his living room in a passable, if simple, four/four rhythm.

Dancing close.

Dancing slow.

Falling in love.

When Welsh speaks, it's like a bucket of ice water down the back of Ray's neck.

"Okay. I see. Let me try."

Fraser lets Ray go, his eyes skittering away again. But his hand leaves Ray's back smoothly, stroking, for just a second.

Taking Welsh's enormous hand again is thankfully more than enough to bring Ray back to the here and now. Any lingering starry-eyes are firmly extinguished the second the Lieutenant steps on his foot… again.

The lesson could not be called an unqualified disaster. Welsh takes turns leading, first Ray, then Fraser, through the most basic box step and turn combination until he can do it without pushing them over backwards or mashing their feet.

"You know, sir, what you need is a more…uh… female partner. It's different dancing with a guy - 1. because they're fighting you all the way for the lead, and b. because women are mostly lighter on their feet and smaller."

Welsh lets Fraser's hand drop and looks at Ray. He runs a couple of fingers around the inside of his collar and seems to think about that.

Fraser's face is thoughtful. "Sir, if I may make a suggestion? Perhaps, since Francesca is willing to lend you her music collection, she might also be willing to assist you in your lessons. If she were to join you tomorrow, perhaps you could get a better idea of what Ray is trying to explain."

"Ms. Vecchio? Don't you think that might be a little unusual? I wouldn't want her to think that because I'm her boss…"

"I'm certain that Francesca would never do something she didn't want to, sir," Fraser says quickly.

"Are you kidding? Frannie'd have you for breakfast if she thought she was being railroaded," Ray adds.

"That's more along the lines of what I was afraid of," Welsh says with a haunted expression.

"I think it would make a difference, sir, but it's up to you."

Welsh sniffs and reaches for his overcoat, signalling the end of the lesson. "I'll think about it," he mutters. "Constable Fraser, do you want a ride back?"

Fraser makes some excuse about collecting Dief while the lieutenant, who doesn't push or seem surprised despite the distance to the consulate, struggles into his coat. He just shrugs, says some gruff thanks and goodnights, then leaves, looking to the right and left before he exits Ray's apartment.

The bang of the door is the cue for an awkward and kind of loaded silence: Ray's waiting for Fraser to show him how to play this, because he's seriously lost by the whole situation. He doesn't know whether to apologise, laugh it off, or just push the guy against the wall and kiss him senseless.

"I, ah," Fraser begins, and Ray looks at him hopefully. "I'm sorry not to have called ahead, Ray."

Ray quirks half a smile at Fraser, who's staring over his shoulder, daring a peek at him only now and then. "'S okay. I wasn't doing anything important."

He winces as the words trip off his tongue, and at the slow flush that creeps up from Fraser's jaw and onto his cheeks. Fraser knows exactly what he'd been doing when they arrived.

Ray clears his throat. "I don't think I'm gonna be able to turn Welsh into Astaire in a week though," he admits, settling on an easy topic.

"Oh, I think you made significant progress this evening, Ray. You're actually a very good teacher," Fraser says, playing with his fingers and trying to keep his head down until he's stopped blushing, Ray guesses.

"Yeah, I'm just full of surprises, huh?" Ray mutters, noticing the way Fraser's head snaps up out of the corner of his eye.

"I... I should really go and collect Diefenbaker. I don't want his bad influence corrupting neighbourhood dogs." Fraser flips his hat in his hands once, then places it decisively on his head.

Right. So that's how they're playing it. It's not exactly what Ray was hoping for, but it's better than some scenarios he could think of. "G'night, Fraser."

"Goodnight, Ray, and thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

The door clicks softly shut and Ray, his back to the wall, drops his head and presses his eyes with his thumbs, suddenly very, very tired.

He turns the lights off and shucks his clothes as he goes, then falls into bed and stares at the ceiling until the music eventually stops looping in his head and sleep finally overtakes him.

~~::~~::~~::~~::~~

Okay, so Fraser is his friend, Ray thinks as he watches the Mountie search through his filing cabinet for a lost report the next afternoon. This is important to remember. This is key. This is how Ray is going to rationalise what happened last night, and it goes something like this - what Ray had misinterpreted as interest is simply Fraser, in his socially retarded way, letting Ray know that he isn't disgusted by Ray's tastes. And that's a good thing to know. A very good thing.

So why does Ray feel kind of like crap?

With a flourish and an, "a-ha!" Fraser turns to Ray with a triumphant smile which falters the second he catches sight of Ray's face.

Yeah. Crap.

Ray sits up straighter and scrubs his hands over his face. "You got it?"

"Yes, it was misfiled under…" Fraser pauses and puts the file down on the desk. "Are you all right, Ray?"

He has his head tilted and his eyes are doing that intense, searching, _caring_ thing that Ray can never deal with, especially when it's directed at him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Let's get going. You can read it to me on the way." Ray stands, grabs his keys and is out of the door without waiting to see if Fraser's following him.

In the end, it takes all afternoon to track down Mr. Umbolo, and in between following up names, asking questions and discovering that the leads lead exactly nowhere since the guy died in a freak mini-golfing accident the year previously, there's very little time for anything but the case, much to Ray's relief.

In fact, they don't get done until after ten, and Ray's careful to grin and be his normal cocky self when he drops Fraser and Dief at the consulate that night, cutting off any thoughts Fraser might have had about them doing the talking thing. He feels kind of bad about it but still relishes the sweet flood of reprieve that he's managed to avoid Fraser's questions as he watches his partner grow smaller and disappear in his rear-view mirror.

The next day is a lot of the same thing - dead-end leads, frustration and lack of progress, only this time it has no Fraser because Thatcher has decided that Canada needs administrating more than Ray needs a partner that day.

So Ray's gotten home with a headache, a bad mood and a few choice words from Welsh on his lack of results. He's slumped in front of the TV waiting for the Advil to kick in when he hears the knock on the door.

He knows who it is going to be and he has to stretch out the telltale slump in his shoulders before he opens the door. Sure enough, Lieutenant Welsh is giving him his most hopeful frown while Frannie's critiquing the décor of his building's halls. But Ray isn't expecting Fraser to be standing behind them looking inscrutable.

Inscrutable.

Again with the stealth Canadian thing.

There's nothing to do but step back and let them all pass him by on their way to ruin his evening. He deliberately turns his back when Fraser begins rearranging his furniture: the uncomfortable memory of what he hears Fraser, in his head, call "the video incident" makes his guts squirm.

"Oh, it's very you, Ray," Frannie says, turning in a circle. "Tell me, what do you call this colour? Sludge? Grime?"

To stop Frannie's idiotic chatter and Fraser's inscrutable glances, Ray gets straight down to work tonight. Thankfully Frannie has some rhythm and is actually kind of graceful on her feet. She manages to make Welsh look halfway competent when they recap what he's learned already. Of course, Ray will still have to do something about the pained expression before he lets Welsh loose on the partygoers of Chicago, but on the whole the idea to bring Frannie was a good one.

He spends twenty minutes watching and correcting Welsh, and, of course incidentally, staying on the opposite side of the room from Fraser before being called on to demonstrate something. He's been dreading this point, and one look at Frannie's raised eyebrow when he comes toward her with his hand out confirms his biggest fear.

"No way, buddy," Frannie says, her body language unmistakable.

"C'mon, Frannie, I'm not exactly thrilled by the prospect myself, but…"

"No offence, bro, but I'll stick to dancing with the gentlemen in the room if you don't mind," she snaps.

Ray smiles sharply at her. "You trying to infer that I'm not a gentleman?"

"I think you mean imply, Ray," Fraser adds helpfully.

"Infer, imply, implode… whatever," Frannie squawks, flapping her hands at him and saving Ray the effort of glaring at Fraser. "I'm here to dance with Harding." Ray can see the second that Frannie realises, as plain as if a little cartoon light bulb appeared over her head. She turns a coquettish, big-eyed smile on Fraser. "Although, if it would help, I'd be happy for Fraser to…"

"May I suggest, if Francesca is unwilling, that I dance with Ray? That will enable you both to observe while Ray demonstrates," Fraser says smoothly over whatever humiliating, desperate plan Frannie was about to propose. "If you're amenable, of course, Ray," he adds.

Ray forces a grin on his face. "Good thinking, Frase," he replies, hoping he's put enough enthusiasm into his voice.

This is great. Really great. He's going to get another slice of "Ray's sexuality doesn't make me uncomfortable" from the Mountie. Ray knows that Fraser will be out to prove how much he still likes him and how unthreatened he feels by Ray's appreciation of all things male.

Maybe Ray can just feign some kind of injury… like a heart attack or something. But Fraser's standing there looking all helpful and pleased with himself, and he'd see through Ray's pretense in a heartbeat.

Ray tries to loosen his shoulders as he steps up to Fraser's waiting arms. He rolls his neck and shakes out his arms, knowing the others think he's getting ready to dance, instead of getting ready to hide a big old inappropriate hard-on from Fraser.

The Mountie lays a big, warm hand on Ray's shoulder as Ray reaches out and holds him lightly around the waist. Their free hands find each other and grasp without fumbling. It's like clockwork. It's like two pieces of a puzzle sliding seamlessly together. It's like a lock and a key. It's like tongue and groo…

Okay, no, Ray does not need that particular visual.

He doesn't have to look down to know that he isn't going to step on Fraser's feet and he doesn't need to look up to see if Fraser is ready to move on the beat. Ray has a feeling that he could do anything and Fraser would follow - spins, combinations, anything, and Fraser would nail it. As long as they're touching, skin to skin, their connection will work, making Fraser be where Ray needs him to be and vice-versa.

Ray's had partners he'd danced with for _months_ and never felt this level of connection and… rightness.

Ray doesn't know what it is they're dancing to, he can't even remember what it is he's supposed to be showing Frannie and Welsh - he's just dancing, moving Fraser and him around his sad little living room like it's the Crystal Ballroom, dark and smoky on a Saturday night.

Somehow Ray makes it through another hour of this special hell and then he's seeing Frannie and Welsh out of the door with promises of another lesson tomorrow night. To be honest, Ray would agree to just about anything to get them out of there. He's been half-hard the whole time and his jeans are chafing like a bitch. Fraser's hanging back again, lingering in the living room, taking his time to tie his hiking boots - and seriously? Who goes to a dance lesson in hiking boots?

Ray doesn't know whether to hold the door open for Fraser or what, and settles on pushing it closed but not latching it shut. He doesn't want it to seem like he's pushing Fraser out - the guy is still his best friend, especially now he's decided to be so understanding about Ray's dirty little secret. On the other hand, he hopes Fraser isn't going to try and talk to him about how great it is that he's bi and how much Fraser doesn't mind. These things have been thoroughly inf… impli… - okay, there's no need to actually say anything as far as Ray's concerned.

"Can I get you a drink, Frase?" Ray says, edging past him and heading for the kitchen.

"That's very kind of you, Ray. If you have a glass of water, I'd be grateful."

Ray rolls his eyes, and wonders how many extra calories a day Fraser uses up with his overlong sentences. He grabs a bottle of water and a beer from the refrigerator and joins Fraser in the living room, which he's restoring to its former state of mismatched divorcee-chic.

Fraser takes the bottle with a quiet thank you and joins Ray on the couch, drinking in companionable silence for a few moments.

"I really think you've made a huge difference, Ray," Fraser says. "I believe the Lieutenant was feeling a great deal of concern about his performance before you took him under your wing."

Ray grins, and puts his empty on the floor. "Well, he couldn't have gotten a whole lot worse now, could he?"

Fraser smiles back and peels at the label on his bottle rather than agree. "I think he'll be suitably prepared by Saturday night, Ray. Your help means that he can go in there without embarrassment. You know, he seems to think that his ex-wife has invited him simply to humiliate him in front of her new husband."

"Yeah, well, there's nothing like an ex to kick you when you're down, Frase."

Fraser looks ruffled for a few seconds, as if he wants to say something, licking his bottom lip distractingly before he takes another sip of his water. Ray isn't sure if that's his usual 'Stella' reaction or the remembrance of somebody from his own past; Fraser plays his cards pretty close to his chest, at least when it comes to stories about his own love life.

"Well, thank you for the water, Ray. I'd better be on my way."

And this is why Ray loves Fraser (one of the reasons anyway); however freaky the guy might be, he's still a guy, which means that awkward conversations and discussions about personal sexuality and feelings are strictly a last resort.

~~::~~::~~::~~::~~::~~

The following evening rolls around, washed in on a tide of bad coffee, uncommunicative witnesses and waiting on phone calls. Ray's weary before he even opens the door to his little class. They trip into his living room, Frannie in strappy silver heels and something with sparkles, talking a mile a minute, the Lieu with the air of a man awaiting his fate and Fraser with a tricky little nervous edge to him that pings Ray's awareness instantly.

By nine, Welsh is moving well enough that Ray is mostly able to stand back and offer constructive criticism rather than actually getting in there to do the heavy lifting. But Fraser's twitchiness has gotten under Ray's skin, like an indefinable itch. Whenever Ray glances Fraser's way, the Mountie is fidgeting, shifting his weight, worrying at a nail or brushing his eyebrow with his thumb. Ray can't figure it; the guy is usually like a rock. Ray's been known to prod him during stakeouts just to make sure he's still breathing.

Ray finally caves, walking around the dance floor and stopping close to where Fraser's leaning against the wall next to the CD player.

"You okay there, Fraser?" Ray asks quietly without looking away from Frannie and Welsh. From the corner of his eye he watches Fraser straighten, becoming still for the first time tonight.

"I'm fine, Ray."

"'Cause you don't have to hang around if you've got places to be."

"No, nowhere to be, Ray," Fraser answers stiffly.

Okay, this is worrisome but Ray knows that it's only a matter of time before things are back to normal between them. Fraser made it clear that Ray's slightly less than straight outlook makes no difference to their partnership or their friendship - in fact, he's gone out of his way to reassure Ray what with all the dancing and the hanging out. All Ray has to do is ride out this bump and let their natural groove return. But it's hard when Fraser is so obviously still turning this stuff over in his mind, and apparently not as comfortable as he maybe thought he'd be.

Ray finds himself returning to this again and again, like a sore tooth that he just can't help prodding with his tongue. He tells himself it was a bad week and that's why he's feeling out of sorts. He tells himself that Fraser and him being buddies is a thing of beauty.

But although he hates to acknowledge it, he also knows that he's disappointed. He is.

Fraser is this kind of _ideal_ for him - funny, smart, generous and not to mention hot in an upright, not-a-hair-out-of-place kind of way. When Ray's appreciation of guys was a secret, he could delude himself that one day, when the time was right, he'd look at Fraser, and Fraser would look at him and they'd ride off into the sunset together on a dog-sled, or something equally bizarre. Okay, so it was unlikely, but it was within the realm of possibility. At least it was something to pull out when he was feeling pathetic and lonely. And as long as Ray didn't _know_ it wasn't gonna turn out like that, it could, right?

But now that Fraser knows about him, and hasn't fallen into his arms and his bed, that daydream is over. Done. Ray likes guys. So what? No happy ever after. No sunset. No dogsled.

No Fraser.

Ray's dragged back from his pity party by Frannie's yip of pain and Welsh's weary apology. He realises he's been so engrossed in his own misery that he hasn't got a clue what happened, other than Welsh stepping on Frannie's toes. And Welsh is looking at him expectantly, waiting to be corrected.

"Uh…" Ray begins uselessly.

"If I may, Ray?" Fraser asks, and Ray nods dumbly. "If I've understood Ray's instructions, then Francesca's trouble lies in anticipating your next move, Lieutenant. If I might suggest Ray demonstrate again how we transmit that information to our partners to allow them to follow…"

Without waiting for a response, Fraser turns to Ray and holds out his hands, waiting for Ray to step up.

With a sigh he hopes no one hears, Ray takes Fraser's hand and resigns himself to being uncomfortably hard for the rest of the night. After the last lesson, he had the sense to pull on a baggy, long sweatshirt that should have been cleaning rags years ago, so at least his body's unavoidable reaction would be hidden.

He's surprised when Fraser takes the lead, sliding his hand across Ray's hip and resting it in the small of his back. But Ray is nothing if not adaptable, so he rolls with it, resting his suddenly sweaty palm firmly on Fraser's shoulder and nowhere near the bare, warm, tempting skin of his neck.

"Now, Ray, if you'd please close your eyes."

Okay, obviously Ray isn't as adaptable as that.

"Huh?" he grunts staring at Fraser's face, much too close to his own.

"As I understood it, I am supposed to inform you, as my partner, of our next manoeuvre through messages in my own posture."

Ray watches Fraser's lips, moving, saying something about… something. When they stop and everything goes quiet, Ray clues in that he's been asked a question.

"Uh, that's… yeah," he replies, hoping that he's guessed correctly and grateful for Fraser's short nod.

"Good, so if you close your eyes, we can ascertain whether I'm giving you sufficient physical cues for you to follow my lead," Fraser says as if it's a perfectly reasonable thing to ask a guy.

Ray looks to Frannie and Welsh, checking to see if he's missed something, but their faces give no indication that they're surprised or shocked by Fraser's idea.

"Lieutenant, if you please?" Fraser asks, and Welsh obligingly cues up the track again.

Casting one more glance at Fraser's patient, waiting face, Ray swallows and closes his eyes.

"Trust me, Ray," Fraser says, his voice pitched low, and his mouth much closer to Ray's ear than he'd realised. Ray carefully tries to relax his muscles while Fraser keeps the steps simple, but Ray's working against the sudden visual he has in his head of the two of them holding on to each other, pressed together and moving in time.

In the sad reality of his shabby living room, he knows they look ridiculous, but in his mind's eye he can see their heads tilted together, he can see Fraser smiling, his hand spanning Ray's lower back easily.

And in his mind's eye, they look _good_.

Okay, that's not helping. Ray feels warmth begin to curl slowly, a tight tingling low in his belly and his heart begins to beat a little faster. He clears his throat and tries to concentrate on Fraser's silent instructions.

But that idea is just full of traps too, because Fraser smells good. Sounds good. Feels good. Really, _really_ good. The heat from his skin and the stupid soap he uses creates this uniquely Fraser scent that on anyone else would be unremarkable, but somehow Ray finds himself breathing shallowly to avoid the overload of it. And Fraser's breathing? Ray can hear the measure of it, feel his chest swell with it and the gust of it exhaled over his cheek.

Christ, who knew Fraser breathing was sexy?

Ray is _so_ fucked.

He can hear Frannie and the Lieutenant arguing over who should close their eyes, a low good-humoured burble of voices, and he can hear Fraser's occasional murmured suggestions, but mostly he just hangs on and tries not to hump Fraser's hip.

"How am I doing?" Fraser's voice is incredibly intimate, and, once again, pitched just for Ray's ears. Ray shudders, unable to still himself in time. Fraser responds by pulling him a little closer and turning them three times in quick succession.

Ray knows that shouldn't be enough to make him feel dizzy.

When the song ends, Ray opens his eyes, taking a deep breath to counter the vertigo he feels seeing the reality of Fraser's serious face a scant few inches from his own, and knowing that he's still in Fraser's arms and that he won't fall.

Fraser blinks at him for a few seconds, his clear blue eyes watching carefully and intently, then he lets go and steps back, leaving Ray to find vertical on his own again. The loss of contact seems to have a strange effect on Fraser, and Ray watches as he squares his shoulders and his face takes on that deliberately blank expression Ray remembers from the day they first met. Within seconds, Fraser has lost the grace and ease of how they'd danced and become the Mountie again, and it makes something in Ray's heart twist.

With an effort dragged from he doesn't know where, Ray pulls himself back into the room and even manages to make a few cracks at Frannie's expense while the furniture's replaced and the room returns to its comfortable chaos. Fraser's being his usual encouraging, hearty self, which in anyone else would be grating, only Fraser gets away with it because he actually means it when he says it.

Ray finds he's slightly numb to the banter, aware of it, but feeling several layers removed. He drifts through being a good host, handing off coats and Frannie's purse and waiting patiently as Welsh and Frannie snipe their way out of the door.

Yet again Fraser has hung back, and in his dislocated headspace, Ray knows he should think that's weird or exciting or worrying or something. He just can't decide which.

As he shuts the door and turns, Fraser is right behind him, almost touching, giving Ray the jolt he needs to get him out of their weird post-dancing funk.

"Fraser! What the...?"

Fraser simply puts a finger to his lips and comes to stand next to Ray, his ear pressed to the door. There really isn't enough room for two grown men, but Ray has been closer to Fraser than this for a good part of the evening, so he doesn't really have an argument for feeling crowded. And, besides, parts of Ray think that this is an exceptionally good idea. Without the need to move or anticipate Fraser's lead, Ray finds himself with a tight chest, a racing pulse and a buzz in the back of his brain that's looping _Fraser_ and _sex_, overlaying everything else.

This is the third time Fraser's stuck around after class. Ray tries to squash the flare of hope that he hasn't been able to shake - that maybe Fraser has a reason for staying, a reason that involves skin and hands and lips; maybe Fraser's sticking around with _intent_, not just out of being a good friend.

Through the fog of arousal, Ray becomes aware of the low burble of voices outside his door. He looks to Fraser's rapt expression, and watches as his face moves from concentration to relief to a small, gentle smile of genuine delight.

"Fraser?" Ray whispers.

Fraser puts his fingers to his lips again, and takes Ray by the sleeve, pulling him back into the apartment.

Ray stumbles behind him, almost bumping into Fraser when he stops abruptly and turns.

"I'm sure you didn't miss that the Lieutenant and Francesca seemed especially invested in tonight's lesson, Ray," Fraser says quietly, and Ray shakes his head because what else can he do? Admit that he's been so wrapped up in thoughts of Fraser that he barely registered that anyone else was even there? Although, now he thinks about it, maybe Frannie did smile more and bitch less, and maybe the Lieu did only growl once or twice instead of after every song.

"Well, I suspected that perhaps the music had inspired certain… ah… ideas to develop." Fraser licks his bottom lip, drawing Ray's eyes to the subtle sheen. "Certain ideas of a… ah… romantic nature."

Fraser's mouth is pretty. It looks soft and it would take less than a second for Ray to lean forward and find out how soft it actually is regardless of whether Welsh and Frannie are having romantic ideas…

"What?" Ray's pleasant imaginings screech to a sudden, whiplash-inducing halt.

"I believe the Lieutenant and Francesca have just agreed that she will accompany him to his ex-wife's wedding on Saturday," Fraser explains, rubbing his eyebrow with a quick thumb.

Ray nods stupidly, unable to form a response.

"I think it will do the Lieutenant's confidence no end of good to have a partner he's danced with before, to say nothing of having an attractive guest on his arm." Fraser smiles again, and if Ray were a betting man, he'd put money on Fraser's happiness at the news having something to do with getting a break from the feminine tonnage that Frannie brings to bear on Fraser on a daily basis.

Fraser is watching Ray with an oddly expectant expression on his face, and Ray realises that it's a while since he's said anything more intelligent than, 'What?' He clears his throat, scratches his ear and says, "Well, I guess you're right, the music must have been pretty inspirational."

"Yes, it was, Ray," Fraser agrees, looking down at the floor before flicking his gaze up to Ray's face.

Ray guesses that's another cue for him to speak, but he's all out of small talk. He feels wrung out: he's spent the last two hours bouncing from aroused to hopeful to surprised to… well, despondent.

Of course Fraser hadn't stayed behind for Ray - he'd been giving the Lieutenant and Frannie some space to hook up. Of course he hadn't _wanted_ to demonstrate with Ray - he'd been giving the lovebirds the illusion of privacy. And Ray is a pathetic, daydreaming idiot.

"Right, then I'll just… I'll be on my way. Thank you for the lesson, Ray. I'll see you tomorrow."

Ray waves a hand and mumbles something, leaving Fraser to let himself out before shutting off the CD player, switching off the lights and taking himself off for a long, hot shower in an effort to distract himself from the thoughts that tumble recklessly around his head tonight.

The water is good and Ray blows out several explosive breaths trying to slow his brain down and rid himself of the twitchiness that this evening has left him with. The heat and steam do their work and Ray begins to relax a little. He's still hard in a pathetic, lacking-in-attention kind of way and he gives himself a quick stroke to gauge whether this is something he can ignore or something that's gonna keep him awake. He's tired and a little low, and he doesn't want to spend long minutes trying to keep thoughts of Fraser out of his mind while he jerks off.

His cock twitches in his palm, and Ray decides what the hell, he's almost there anyway. With one hand on the tile and the other wrapped firmly around his shaft, Ray begins to stroke himself, quick and hard. Within a minute he's on the brink, panting and focussing attention on the head where he likes it best. He thinks about Jessica Alba in that leather jacket, he thinks about Stella and when it was good between them, he thinks about the stupid video that started all this and the dark-haired guy in it who groans in that sexy way. Hell, he thinks about Justin Dawson and a sticky summer night from when he was seventeen, but it isn't until the memory of Fraser's palm pops into his head, how it felt on his back, big and warm and solid that he comes, spurting over his fist to be washed away a second later.

Ray stands under the spray, his nerves singing and his limbs like lead.

There is no escaping the fact. He is _fucked_.

So very, very fucked.

~~::~~::~~::~~::~~::~~

Ray has given himself a stern talking to in the shower this morning. It's Friday, and he isn't on duty this weekend but, more than that, Saturday is the day of the ex-Mrs. Lieu's wedding, so that means only one more evening and then no more dancing lessons, no more helpful interior design tips from Frannie, no more aching groin from unattainable goals, and, most of all, no more enduring Fraser plastered up against him all evening. All he has to do is get through today, and this death by daydream will be over.

But Ray knows something's about to go wrong when he catches Frannie giving him the eye over the water cooler.

"What?" Ray barks, figuring it's easier to get it over with.

"How long would it take us to learn another kind of dance?" Frannie asks, leaning in and looking around the room in a way most likely to make people think she's up to something. And with his inhuman knack for timing, Fraser walks into the bullpen at exactly that moment, and spotting Ray, crosses the room toward them, Dief trotting behind with his nose held high, sniffing for baked goods.

"Why?" Ray narrows his eyes suspiciously. It has taken him hours just to get Welsh to this point - a kind of waltz/cha-cha/foxtrot/whatever he doesn't mash fusion. He nods a curt hello to Fraser who has his intent listening face on again.

"Hi, Fraser!" Frannie says brightly before turning back to Ray. "See, my friend, Marcella, is doing salsa classes and she said…"

"Good morning, Francesca, Ray. And the salsa is an excellent choice - a very expressive form of dance. Originally, of course, it comes from…"

"No," Ray blurts, too loud and kind of breathless.

Two pairs of surprised eyes swivel toward him. Ray's heart rattles in his chest and he feels a little sick. Has it not been bad enough already? Has he not _suffered_? There is no way he's going to endure a style that relies on the dancers being very close together, and their hips being in constant motion. He'll never survive.

"Ray?" Fraser begins, tipping his head and watching him closely.

"I can't. I… meant to tell you. I'm busy. Tonight," Ray smiles apologetically and begins to walk backwards away from Frannie's pout and Fraser's raised eyebrows. "I'm… I have a date."

Stupid, thinks Ray, but instead of shutting up and leaving it at that, he adds layers to his obvious lie. "Old girlfriend called me up out of the blue. I'd be stupid to turn that down, right? I mean, you guys are great and all, but a date's a date, yeah?"

He winks and grins his most outrageous grin, then turns and walks through the swing doors, pretending not to notice the disappointed look on Fraser's face.

The men's room is cool and dim and mercifully empty. Ray walks over to the sinks, rests his hands on the cold porcelain and breathes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mutters. He looks up into the spotted mirror, and sees a tired, frustrated man at the end of his rope staring back at him.

He panicked - there's no point pretending otherwise. Just the thought of him and Fraser demonstrating a dance as intimate and sensual as the salsa makes his stomach do an alarming flip-flop. It's always been one of his favourites, especially back in the day, and the sheer physicality of it and the palpable connection between the participants had made it a style that Ray excelled at. Imagining teaching that kind of intensity to Welsh twists Ray's brain into strange, tortured shapes, but imagining having to partner with Fraser in a dance so overtly sexual is a hundred steps further than he's prepared to go. It's not fair to him, and it's not fair to Fraser, however clueless the guy is to the effect he has on Ray.

Ray breathes and rubs a cold hand over his face. At least now it's over, doneski. He can go back to his lonely apartment and spend his evenings in peace doing whatever the hell he wants instead of tormenting himself with Fraser's warmth and Fraser's solidness and Fraser's fucking scent.

Ray leaves the men's room. He has to do something, move, run, get out of here for a while, before he totally loses it. He pushes the door to the bullpen open and leans in far enough to yell, "Fraser, yo! The bad guys aren't gonna catch themselves, you know." He lets the door shut behind him as he heads for the parking lot, half-relieved and half-disappointed when he hears the unmistakable tick of Dief's claws on the floor behind him. He hopes Fraser's adherence to the guy-code doesn't fail him now. There's no way he could actually _talk_ about any of this stuff. But Fraser's good - focused on the case, he even manages a short(ish) pemmican anecdote - and Ray begins to let himself believe that they can really put the last week behind them and go back to the friendship that was so close to being enough before all this dancing shit happened.

~~::~~::~~::~~::~~

Ray wants to be surprised later that night when he's distracted from his ocean of self-pity by a polite knock on the door. He holds his breath and doesn't move for long seconds. He's got the volume turned down on the hockey he's been half watching; he doesn't think even bat-ears can hear…

"Forgive me, Ray, but I know you're in there. I wondered if I might just have a couple of minutes of your time?"

Stupid thin doors. Stupid Mounties with inhuman hearing and great vocal projection. And what can he say to that?

Ray makes a detour to the kitchen, dampening his hair and pulling off his work shirt, leaving him in his jeans and tee. He kicks off his boots and socks, then walks to the door, rubbing his hand through his hair.

"Hey, Fraser, what's up?" he asks, opening the door to an apologetic, but determined looking Mountie. Ray leans his shoulder against the doorframe, blocking the way into his apartment in the most subtle way he knows, not that Fraser will mistake it.

"Ah, Ray, I'm sorry to interrupt your plans," Fraser begins, eyeing Ray's dishevelled hair and state of undress.

"'s okay. We're not meeting until…uh…" Ray glances at his watch. "…eight thirty. What can I do for you?"

"May I come in? This won't take long."

Ray pauses, then nods once, stepping back and letting Fraser walk by.

It's somehow very different this evening, having Fraser in his living room. They're both on edge, a wide, slow river of unspoken accusations between them. Fraser won't catch Ray's eye, and Ray doesn't want to provoke any conversation that might lead to guts being spilled, so he says nothing.

A minute of awkward silence, and Ray's about ready to punch a wall. "Look, you take as long as you need, but I'm gonna go and finish getting ready, okay?" Ray walks into his bedroom and starts going through his closet to find a clean shirt for his non-existent date.

"There's no point in continuing this, Ray," Fraser's voice is pitched low, and Ray guesses he's standing in his doorway, but he isn't giving him the satisfaction of turning around to look.

"What's that?" Ray asks, pulling out a black, self-striped shirt. If the worst happens, then he'll just get dressed and go out. Unless Fraser's planning to stalk him all night, he should be safe.

"There is no date, Ray," Fraser says clearly but gently, and Ray has to give him his due - he's the one making the first move and that takes some courage.

But he's also the one rocking the fragile house of cards they've been calling a friendship.

"You calling me a liar, Frase?" Ray asks, hoping that the roiling shaky feeling in his belly hasn't found its way into his voice. Hoping that Fraser's Canadian roots won't let him say yes. Hoping that Fraser's just going to let him have this amateur piece of deception and give them a chance at a future working relationship.

"Ray, please."

Ray drags his tee off over his head and pulls on the dress shirt, buttoning up from the bottom hem. He moves to the mirror and winces when he sees the mess his hair is in. His fingers are fast and practiced, and soon it's spiked up in just one direction, and looking pretty good. He chances a glance at Fraser who's staring directly at his reflection over his shoulder. He's lost his hat and his jacket somewhere, and he's watching with a slightly exasperated frown.

Ray grabs a pair of socks and starts hunting for his boots. He checks the closet, under the bed, behind the door, but they aren't there. He brushes past Fraser, a thrill of guilty heat creeping across his skin where they touch, and heads into the living room. Clicking on the table lamp, he continues his search, trying to ignore the rising tide of impatience he can feel filling the space between them.

He just wants out of here, out of the expectant silence. He wants them to do the guy thing and pretend nothing happened and he wants for Fraser to let him off the hook, just once, and let him save face. Why is that so hard? What is so fucking hard about that? And where are his fucking _boots?_

"Why are you doing this?"

Something flashes across Ray's mind, a quicksilver spark of pure, indignant fury. "I dunno, Fraser. Some people might say being outed to your best friend by a gay porn video would make them a little tense. Or that having to hold that same friend and teach him to dance when he now knows you're bi might put a slightly stressful angle on your day."

"I don't see what…"

Ray knows that's the start of a perfectly reasonable argument, but Ray doesn't want to hear it. Really. He's had enough. He stands up, holding himself still, squashing the instinct that's screaming at him to run. For the first time since Fraser knocked, they look eye to eye, Ray with a brittle resignation and Fraser with a weird haunted expression that Ray can't place.

"What do you _want_, Fraser?" Ray asks, cutting him off.

Fraser lifts his chin and his gaze never wavers. "To dance. With you. One more time."

Ray can't stop the harsh laugh that bubbles up from inside. He might be slightly hysterical, he thinks. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all."

"_Why_?" Ray spreads his hands, but Fraser is determined.

"I believe there are more things that you can teach me," he says earnestly.

"Nah, you're good, Fraser. I'm thinking we're done."

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Fraser's face, there and then gone, and then he walks carefully into the middle of the semi-dark room and holds out his hand.

"Fraser, I get it, okay?" Ray rubs his palm across his forehead and breathes calmly. "We're buddies, we're solid. You don't have to do this to prove it to me."

Fraser's a good guy, and he might have forgiven Ray for secretly being more than a little queer, for being the kind of guy who owns porn, but he doubts if his pardon will go as far as understanding about Ray dreaming about him naked and sweaty, or the sometimes overwhelming urge Ray has to silence his rounded, Canadian vowels with wet, dirty kisses.

And still Fraser stands, hand outstretched and an intent expression on his stupid, stubborn, honest face.

Asking.

"There's no music," Ray objects feebly, knowing now that he's as good as whipped. Fraser always has this way of making Ray a better person than anyone expects - even Ray. He can't watch Fraser stand there, so exposed and strangely vulnerable, and be the person who denies him. Ray's seen that kind of disappointment on Fraser's face before, and, worse, he's seen the lack of surprise Fraser feels when life knocks him down. He shouldn't ever have to look like that, Ray thinks.

So he isn't surprised when he finds himself moving forward, even before Fraser says, "It doesn't matter. We don't need music." Ray has no clue why Fraser thinks this is necessary, unless the guy has developed a sudden passion for the Bossa Nova. What does he mean by Ray having something to teach him? Like what? Fraser's already demonstrated how accepting he is of Ray's sexuality - what else does Ray have that Fraser needs?

They find their groove again immediately, no fumbling when Ray takes Fraser's hand. Fraser's arm goes around Ray's waist with a practiced ease, and Ray quirks a small smile at him for taking the lead already, but Fraser doesn't return the smile, he just looks focused.

Ray relaxes into Fraser's grasp and waits until Fraser picks up a smooth time step, shifting his weight to follow the beat in Fraser's mind. It's an easy pace and Ray finds himself almost enjoying it. There are worse ways to spend an evening, and Ray figures his fate was already sealed the first time he took Fraser's hand. Or maybe the first time Fraser smiled at him.

And maybe this wasn't so bad, because without Frannie's yapping and Welsh's wheezing, Ray can give himself over completely to the sensation of moving with Fraser, committing it to memory and storing it up for the difficult days ahead because despite everything, he's going to miss this excuse to just touch Fraser.

The familiarity of Fraser's lead lulls him and he closes his eyes, just as he'd done yesterday. Without the furniture moved out of the way, Fraser is keeping their steps small and they turn pretty much on the spot. Ray is in that place where he's moving without conscious thought, and his mind drifts over how he can feel each of Fraser's fingers on his back and the way the rough skin of his own fingers is catching on the pile of Fraser's shirt. So he's utterly unprepared when Fraser leans in and kisses him, soft and unhurried.

Ray doesn't breathe, doesn't move, doesn't even kiss back, because this is definitely one from the 'strange and unusual ways that Ray Kowalski died from shock' category. It's a sweet kiss, nothing possessive or hungry in it, just… nice. And completely ambiguous. Ray keeps his eyes closed for a second after Fraser pulls back, trying to think of something profound to say while his heart rattles alarmingly in his chest. He fails.

"What was that?"

"That was a kiss, Ray," Fraser replies patiently, like _Ray_ is the insane one here.

"Okay. That's… what I need to know is why? Why'd you do that, Fraser?"

With Fraser's arm still firmly about Ray's waist, it isn't easy for Ray to say the things he needs to say, and he feels a little claustrophobic suddenly.

"It's a common display of affection, Ray," Fraser says with an oddly shy little smile.

"Affection. Right. I get that. Except… no."

"No?" Fraser's eyebrows rise slightly and Ray uses that surprise to pull out of his arms and put a little distance between them. Ray watches as Fraser's hands close in on themselves with nothing now to hold, and he has to stop himself from reaching out to put that right.

"We don't do that. We're not… affectionate."

"Really, Ray? And yet I distinctly remember you telling me on several occasions that you love me." Ray recognises the little head tilt and press of lips that go with these words - Fraser's getting testy.

Ray crosses his arms over his chest, then uncrosses them again to point at Fraser. "Metaphorically. I _said_ it was metaphorically," he insists. Fraser opens his mouth to argue, but Ray cuts him off with another issue. "And that's beside the point."

Fraser crosses his own arms. Yeah, he's getting pissy. "Which was?"

Ray pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. "Why now? The dancing and the kissing and… Why now?"

Fraser's quiet for a long time - long enough to make Ray twitchy, yet he can't quite bring himself to open his eyes and look up. Ray's frightened that he won't like what he sees or the answer that comes with it.

"I thought, that is… I… perhaps I misunderstood."

Ray wipes a tired hand over his face, opens his eyes, then says through his fingers, "How's that?"

It has gotten dark, and the glow from the table lamp isn't enough to fill the living room with anything like enough light to see clearly. Fraser's head is turned toward the window, and somehow the arms around his chest have become more of a defence than a sign of growing irritation.

"I apologise, Ray. I imagined that, knowing what I do about you, and the reaction I noticed when we danced…"

Ah, fuck, Ray thinks. He's stupid to think that Fraser and his damn super senses hadn't realised how turned on Ray was whenever they danced together. The guy can follow dog pee trails (apparently, because Ray is in no hurry to see that one first-hand) - so of course he knows that Ray has been as horny as hell this whole time.

"Look, Fraser, I gotta tell you…"

They both stop talking, their eyes meeting for a moment, before flicking away to somewhere safer. The noise of a fire truck outside, muffled and growing distant marks the time that suddenly seems to have gotten stuck.

"You ever done that before? Ever kissed a guy?" Ray asks finally.

It could be a trick of the light, but Fraser's shoulders seem to straighten a little, then he shakes his head. "No… I… no."

"So, what? You thought you'd see what it was like?" Ray watches Fraser for a reaction, but he isn't giving Ray anything. "'Cause it doesn't work like that. It's not something you just… Look. It's like vegetables, okay?"

That gets him a little eye contact and a frown, which spurs Ray on.

"So, you're either the kind of guy who likes vegetables or you're not. It's not something you learn, or something that you can change. You either like the taste or you don't."

"I'm sorry, Ray. I'm not sure I follow."

Damn literal Mountie. How come he can follow the most oblique leads to catch malfeasants (whatever they are), but he can't follow a simple grocery analogy?

"Guys, Fraser. You either notice guys or you don't. You ever noticed a guy before, like that?"

Fraser looks at the floor and rubs his eyebrow.

"Thought not," Ray says, a stab of disappointment leaving an ache in his belly like he's been punched.

Fraser shifts his weight as if he's uncomfortable. "I got the impression that you might be interested in, ah, me. Was I mistaken?"

Ray watches Fraser's miserable stance, head bowed and face averted, and feels like an asshole. "Doesn't matter either way, Fraser. I'm not looking for that. Seeing an opportunity and taking it is not the same as…"

Falling in love.

He was about to say falling in love.

And how fucked up is _that_?

Fraser is straight - he's never even thought about going with a guy before. Fraser is also lonely, or he wouldn't have reached out to Ray like this. But here's Ray, not only turning down Fraser's offer of a little stress relief between friends, but also bemoaning the fact that that's all Fraser wants - that he isn't in love with Ray.

The way Ray is in love with him.

Ray has to sit down, because these things have a way of sneaking up on him like that, so he stumbles to the couch.

He's in _love_ with Fraser, and that's huge.

Immense.

It isn't just that the guy is easy on the eye with big, capable hands and a smart mouth that Ray has no problem translating into something that gets him off like nothing else when he's imagined how they would feel. It isn't just an easy thing to conjure up when Ray needs to come.

He's in love.

With Fraser.

And that's a problem.

Fraser, unaware of Ray's crisis, runs his hand through his hair, licks his lips and then sits down abruptly next to Ray on the couch, as if his courage is about to fail him if he doesn't act straight away.

"I know you've read all our case histories, so I know you know about Victoria," Fraser says quietly, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes on the opposite wall.

Ray blinks, dragged from his panic attack by the name of the chick that almost got Fraser killed. That file is conspicuous by its lack of detail, so Ray's done some asking around, gathering pieces from various sources to make one fucked-up whole.

"I'm not… good… with people," Fraser continues, "and my experience with her was not as unusual as it might at first appear."

Ray lays his head back on the couch, turning toward Fraser. The dim light makes him look tired as unforgiving shadows find and cling to the lines around his eyes and the stubble on his jaw.

"I realise I appear distant, driven, aloof, stand-offish… a bit of an odd fish, my father tells me. Told me." He puts his hands together, lacing and unlacing his fingers. "The relationships I forge with people tend to be rather superficial as a consequence, and my physical relationships are similarly affected. My partners have all been women I haven't known well or for very long. Much like Victoria."

Ray wants to reach out and touch Fraser's back because it's obviously costing him to say these things. His own dilemma forgotten, Ray waits quietly for Fraser to continue, wondering where this fits into their situation.

"In my infatuation, I thought I loved her," Fraser says softly, as if he's forgotten that Ray's there. "But, like the others, I didn't know her at all. I was simply wrong."

He's quiet for a few seconds before he seems to gather himself and turns his head, looking over his shoulder to Ray. "So you see, Ray, I think that the question might be not whether I like vegetables, but rather whether I am partial to… spinach."

Ray blinks at Fraser for a moment, then looks up at the ceiling to see if that makes any more sense. It doesn't. "What?" he asks weakly.

"I fear your analogy lacked definition, Ray. I don't think it matters whether I like vegetables. Or fruit, for that matter. The fact remains that I enjoy spinach a great deal. In fact, one might say that I love spinach, and that I might grow to, ah, appreciate it even more. Given the right… circumstances. Incentive. Encouragement."

"Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"You're a freak."

"So you've said."

"And I have no idea what the spinach story has to do with you kissing me back there."

"Ah."

"Could you break it down for me, buddy?" Ray asks, dropping his head and smiling despite their unresolved issues, because it's Fraser, and you just can't not.

"Certainly, Ray," Fraser replies, twists in his seat and kisses Ray again, harder this time. His hand cups Ray's cheek and his mouth moves against Ray's smoothly, sucking gently at his bottom lip and sending a spark of lust pinging off every nerve ending in Ray's body.

"You have got to stop doing that," Ray says thickly when Fraser moves away again. "At least until you've explained why you're doing it."

"I'm trying, Ray," Fraser protests, not taking his eyes from Ray's wet mouth.

"Try harder." Ray wants to add, 'and talk faster' because this, this is not funny anymore. He's wanting, and Fraser is _right there_ and all he has to do is give Ray a reason.

"I don't believe this has anything to do with me being heterosexual or homosexual in nature. I think my few previous liaisons have failed to endure due to lack of common knowledge. I wasn't what they'd imagined, and they were little more to me. I believe that any relationship has to have a basis of trust, mutual attraction and understanding, and what I lacked with my previous partners was two out of three of those things. But that's what I have with you in abundance. I just hadn't realised it. So when I, ah, uncovered your interest in, ah, that is…"

"That I was bi," Ray provides helpfully, because, _Christ_ the guy can talk, and they'll be here forever if Ray doesn't lend a hand.

"Thank you," Fraser replies, sounding genuinely grateful, "it made me wonder if my lack of someone with whom to share my life might be attributable to my own short-sightedness rather than the lack of a suitable candidate."

"And the spinach?" Ray asks with a feeling of something slowly beginning to grow inside his chest that might be hope.

Fraser looks at him with what appears to be fond exasperation and sighs. "The physical expression of it is purely a bonus, Ray. The truth is that I…people might say that… I already love you."

"People might say that, huh?"

"Yes, Ray, I believe they would."

"Metaphorically?"

Fraser smiles and ducks his head. "No, not even slightly."

Ray feels the idiotic grin slide onto his face, and watches the one on Fraser's face grow to match. Ray is just thinking about reaching out a hand and doing some kissing of his own when Fraser, slaps his thighs and bounces up from the couch.

"So," he says as he turns and reaches a hand down to Ray. "Shall we?"

Ray swallows and tries not to look shocked, because… what? "Shall we what?" he asks warily, wondering what leap of faith Fraser's mind had taken and whether he's signed up for that so soon.

"Well, dance, of course," Fraser replies with a small confused frown.

Ray lets out his held breath and allows Fraser to pull him up off the couch and into his arms again. It's nice. It's even better than before, because now they hold each other in the knowledge that their nearness is welcomed by the other. They hold each other with purpose and intent. And Ray would be happy to just stand there and drink in Fraser's touch, but Fraser is turning them, shifting his weight and easing them into an easy four/four.

"You're a pushy lead, Fraser," Ray mutters and squeezes his shoulder gently.

"Only when we're dancing, Ray."

Ray falters at that, and looks closer at Fraser's face for clarification, but Fraser's eyes are averted, and he won't look at him. Ray thinks that he's said enough to take a chance, so he says, "Yeah, yeah, I can go with that."

Fraser gives an embarrassed quirk of a smile and short nod, and Ray's pulse is singing throughout his body, his movements smoothing and slowing at the echoed anticipation from Fraser's body.

Ray cautions himself to go slow as he turns his head and slides his hand up onto Fraser's neck and into his hair, but Fraser's ready, bringing his mouth to Ray's without being asked. Their lips brush together, and their steps slow until they're finally still. Ray's holding Fraser's hand, although it has dropped to hip height, and Fraser still has his hand on Ray's waist. This is high school stuff, but Ray knows that it's what he has to do, giving Fraser the chance to call a halt whenever he wants. And it's easily enough, because Ray can feel his heart thudding out a rhythm of its own, racing out of control.

Ray steps it up slowly, making their kisses deeper and their mouths gentler, and when the tip of Fraser's tongue slides softly against his own, he opens his mouth a little wider to let him in, wringing a soft sigh from Fraser.

Ray can feel the way his arousal feeds Fraser's, and Fraser's feeds his own, like an unending cycle, and he knows there will be no take-backs after this, this is the brink of something big, and all he has to do is not fuck it up or push too hard. He can't wait for them to tip over the edge into the freefall beyond, but he has to: he knows that it has to be up to Fraser to set the pace and decided when to make that jump.

He scrapes his teeth gently across Fraser's bottom lip, traces patterns in the soft skin at the nape of his neck, careful and almost innocent. Every move he makes is like a question, every tiny step he dares is left hanging, waiting for Fraser to tell him _no_ or _wait_. But Fraser doesn't say it. In the end it's Fraser who makes a small moan, fists his hand in Ray's t-shirt and drags Ray closer, closing the gap between them and pressing his whole body flush against Ray's.

Ray kind of loses it for a minute, the feel of Fraser's hard, broad body against his own cutting loose all the caution and restraint and making him crazy. He pushes back, and follows as Fraser gives ground until they are hard up against the wall, Ray's thigh shoved between Fraser's legs. He forces Fraser's head back, finding the sweet spot under his jaw and using his teeth and tongue to drag more of those throaty moans from him. He knows he should slow down, catch his breath, think for a minute, but when he tries to pull back, Fraser's having none of it.

He drops his head and kisses Ray's throat, dragging his lips over the stubble, making Ray ache with want. His warm hands are on Ray's sides, stroking and clutching and showing no signs of wanting to take this slow.

"Ray, we should… I can't…"

Ray can feel the buzz of Fraser's words against his adam's apple, distracting him from their meaning for a minute. Finally, through the craziness, Ray registers what Fraser's saying and freezes. He's asked for too much and the thought that he's gotten this far and _still_ fucked it up made him sick. He can't take it, not after all the highs and lows of the last few days.

Fraser must realise, because he draws back, heavy-eyed and wrecked and confused, searching Ray's face for the reason they've stopped. Then his eyes widen and he pulls Ray closer still, urgently murmuring, "No, that's not it. I want… I want more. Can we… do you want to…?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ray says, relief making him light-headed, and he drags them away from the wall, tumbling back into the centre of the room, arms and legs tangling and tripping as they try to move without losing a square inch of contact. All their grace is gone, all their timing and rapport is swept aside by the need to touch and be touched.

Ray's surprised when Fraser steers them past the couch, thinking that was where they'd been heading, thinking that anything that took away the need to stay upright would have been good. But Fraser's crowding him, kissing him, stealing his breath and moving them toward the door to his bedroom.

They miss, stumbling into the doorframe, the sudden halt causing their lips to break apart, gasping and panting for air. Fraser's mouth is red and wet and _God,_ so very hot, and Ray can't drag his eyes away.

"Is this okay, Ray? I mean, have I overstepped…?" Fraser looks flushed and as impatient as Ray has ever seen him. "I don't know how to do this. You have to tell me if I'm moving too fast or forgetting… should we talk about this first? I mean, if you need to talk, then of course we'll… but you need to tell me if there's something I'm supposed to do."

And Ray's heart thuds unevenly in his chest, because _ holy fuck,_ Fraser has already made the jump, and this is really going to happen, and Ray has no idea how to do this - go from friends to lovers. None of his past experience with guys is going to help him here, because this isn't an anonymous fuck or a brief affair. This is _Fraser_ \- his best friend. It's never going to be casual or meaningless or uncomplicated.

He's still struggling with the consequences of that when he becomes aware that Fraser is waiting on an answer. "Uh… no. Nothing comes to mind," Ray says with complete honesty. And that's apparently the right answer, because Fraser takes him by the hand and tugs him into the bedroom.

Ray's mind still hasn't caught up with Fraser's body, and he stumbles as Fraser tows him to the bed, turning to kiss him deeply as they sink down onto the unmade bed. The sheets smell of laundry detergent and sleep, and Ray can't help remembering all the times he's fantasized about having Fraser here with him.

It's dark in his bedroom, Ray hadn't bothered to open the blinds that morning and what light there is does precious little to illuminate, only permitting tantalizing glimpses - Fraser's hair, shining in the glow from the doorway, Fraser's eyes, a deeper black than the other shadows, and their hands, restless, pale motion over the dim planes of their bodies.

It's different in here. Somehow the desperation of the living room has been left on the threshold, and a new kind of reverence has captured them. They kiss, long and unhurried, taking their time and learning every nuance of taste and soft slickness.

Ray's hands move slowly as they trade kisses, leaving no part of Fraser uncharted, and time seems to have matched their lazy caresses, spinning out, stretching seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. Fraser lays quietly, content for Ray to touch and Ray's fingers measure the span of Fraser's ribs, the softness of his hair, the curve of his ass.

Fraser's breath is warm against Ray's mouth and his leg a welcome heaviness where it's thrown over Ray's thigh. Ray feels drunk or drugged or something, arousal and an absolute peace existing side by side within him, the ache in his groin a sweet agony.

Fraser rolls them, placing his hands on Ray's chest and pushing him down to the mattress easily. He holds himself above Ray, and Ray knows that Fraser's eyes are better adapted to the darkness from the way he pauses.

Fraser runs a finger across Ray's lips, then down his throat, over his chest and belly unbuttoning as he goes. Ray shouldn't be surprised when his hand slows as it gets lower still and then drags deliberately over the bulge in his jeans, but he is. His hips lift toward Fraser instinctively, and Fraser cups him through the denim, curious and gentle.

Ray groans and Fraser dips his head to kiss it away, taking the sound into his own mouth. Ray threads a hand through Fraser's hair and hangs on as Fraser's wide fingers stroke restlessly over his hard-on.

"Is this okay?" Fraser asks, managing to sound both nervous and needful. "Do you like this?"

Ray groans again, then lifts up from the bed to yank his shirt off his shoulders, too turned on to talk in sentences. He has to move this forward now, because Fraser is squeezing just right and Ray's too old to come in his pants. He reaches for Fraser's shirt buttons, but has only managed two before Fraser pops the fly on Ray's jeans and has his hand in his shorts, skin to skin. Ray thinks he might just shake apart from the sensation overload as his own fingers become leaden and useless.

"Jesus Christ!" he gasps. Nothing has ever felt as good as Fraser's big hand curled around him, damp and rough and perfect.

"Like this?" Fraser asks again, but Ray is too gone to analyse his words.

"Yeah, fuck, that… do that," he pleads.

Once he has permission, Fraser begins to get creative. He sets a steady pace, and Ray knows he's trying to be careful, but Ray can take more, so he thrusts up to meet Fraser's fist. He wants to close his eyes, to commit every second of this to memory, but he can't… he can't… not with Fraser hanging over him, his face a pale, serious blur, watching him for clues on how to get Ray off in the way most likely to cause him to stroke out.

Ray's hips pump up into Fraser's fist, his thigh muscles trembling with the effort to get higher, push harder, find the perfect rhythm. He can feel himself winding up, higher and higher, and he can hear Fraser's breath, ragged and hitching as his own erection grinds into Ray's stuttering hip. He's almost there when Fraser presses his lips to Ray's collarbone and huffs out a broken, "Ray".

Ray's climax hits him like a brick wall and his body tenses, bow-like, heels to shoulders as he spills over Fraser's fist. He grits his teeth, holding back the sobs of release that he knows are waiting. His body shudders for long seconds afterward and Ray feels like he'll never be able to pull in a calm breath again.

"God, Ray, that was…"

Ray falls back to the bed and stares up into Fraser's awestruck face, reaching up strangely uncoordinated arms to pull his head down, so he can kiss him over and over.

"That was incredible," Fraser breathes when Ray lets him have his lips back. "You… you looked…"

But Ray doesn't wait to find out. He lifts his shoulders and takes advantage of Fraser's moment of imbalance to flip him onto his back. Fraser's hand sends tremors through Ray as he lets Ray's cock slide from his fist, a sweet friction just this side of discomfort.

In the darkness, Ray can just make out Fraser's eyes going wide when Ray follows him down, straddling his hips. Ray knows he ought to be more patient, slow down, make it last and let his brain catch up with his body, but as he finally gets Fraser's shirt unbuttoned he thinks _fuck that_ because only yesterday this was all an impossible dream - something that he'd never have. To see Fraser spread out beneath him, dishevelled, panting and needy is too amazing to ignore, and Ray lets his instincts take the lead.

With hands that only shake a little, Ray yanks open the fly on Fraser's pants and hooks his hands into the waistband, jerking down jeans and boxers at the same time.

Fraser arches his neck and murmurs, "Oh God", sounding broken and grateful and aroused, ramping up Ray's own impatience again. Ray slides his hands up Fraser's sides and scoots down to press open mouthed kisses to his belly and inner thigh, inhaling the salt sour scent of Fraser's arousal. He kisses his way up the underside of Fraser's dick, dragging his lips deliberately, then swallows him in.

Ray hears Fraser curse quietly, his hands coming down, clumsy and uncertain on Ray's head, but Ray is lost in the sensation of Fraser's dick in his mouth, hot and smooth and bitter. Fraser moves and twists under him, and Ray just goes with it, sucking him messy and fast, his hands guiding Fraser's hips, urging him on. They find a pace that works for them both, Ray shifting to follow Fraser's body down each time, his cheeks hollowing greedily around his cock. Fraser holds it together for longer than Ray imagined he could before he groans, shoves up hard and floods Ray's tongue. Ray hums and closes his eyes, holding tightly as he swallows each pulse.

Ray flops back onto the bed beside Fraser, feeling wrecked and happy and shaky. With their clothes still half on, half off, the sheets twisted beneath them and the air heavy with the scent of their sweat and sex, Ray realises they must look pretty debauched, lying there.

"Jesus," Fraser murmurs quietly, and Ray smiles, too high still to agree. After a minute he grabs a handful of tissues from his nightstand, keeping half to wipe his stomach and giving half to Fraser, who mumbles a thank you.

As his heartbeat returns to normal, Ray begins to notice how quiet it is. The silence between them is not their usual comfortable quiet, but something almost oppressive. Ray's just beginning to wonder if he has assumed way too much and if things are going to get seriously weird between them when Fraser's stomach makes the most bizarre growl.

"Hungry?" Ray asks, and Fraser laughs - an easy, rolling sound that Ray rarely hears and that breaks the awkward stalemate between them.

"Apparently," Fraser replies.

"C'mon," Ray says. "Let's find something to eat."

Fraser disappears into the bathroom while Ray walks bare-chested into the kitchen and starts to forage for something Fraser will eat. He hears the faucet turned on and off, and Fraser joins him a moment later. They settle on Cheerios when Fraser looks alarmed at the contents of Ray's refrigerator.

It's brighter out here with the light from the living room spilling over into his tiny kitchen. Fraser hasn't bothered to rebutton his shirt, and his hair is still decidedly rakish and unkempt. He looks good, kind of reckless, Ray thinks, quietly relieved that Fraser hasn't gotten dressed and tidy again. He likes the evidence of what they've just done written on their skin and apparent in the way they move so easily. It's honest.

They both stand at the counter, bowls in hand, eating companionably, their gazes catching every now and again, and sharing small smiles that lay somewhere between embarrassed and conspiratorial. Ray can't quite believe that it can be this easy, that this massive step they've taken hasn't changed everything profoundly, that everything feels so… normal.

Ray brings his bowl to his lips and drinks down the last of his milk, grinning unrepentantly at Fraser, who shrugs and does the same.

There's a pause, neither of them knowing what the next line is, and Ray drums his fingers on the counter. The awkwardness has returned to some degree, but Fraser's eyes are shyly appreciative as they linger over Ray's body. Ray figures that he'll return the compliment and he doesn't bother to hide that he's enjoying what he sees. Fraser quirks a small smile and licks his lips.

"Still hungry?" Ray asks quietly, watching Fraser closely.

Fraser opens his mouth to reply then closes it again, his head tipping to one side as he catches Ray's deliberately provocative words. He steps into Ray's space and kisses him with a growing certainty that Ray's enjoying. His mouth is open and inviting, and Ray slips his arms around Fraser's waist as he slides their tongues together.

Fraser's eyes are dark and intense when they break apart and he turns toward the bedroom again, slipping his shirt off his shoulders as he goes and not waiting to see if Ray is following.

Fraser's shoulders have always been a bit of a thing for Ray, the thing he noticed most often, and the thing he dreamed about at night. Fraser's skin is pale, reflecting the light from the table lamp, and as he disappears into the darkness of the bedroom, Ray is drawn helplessly along behind him, urgently needing to taste the smooth, wide expanse of his neck and shoulders.

He follows Fraser closely, almost bumping into him where he's stopped to toe off his boots. His socks go next, and he's already pushing his jeans over his hips before Ray's brain catches up and matches his actions.

Abruptly, Ray's reminded of dancing in the way they react to each other, mirroring each other's movements without need for words. Fraser's watching him as they both push off their underwear, stepping out of it and straightening up. Fraser's breath is uneven, but he doesn't attempt to cover up. He's already getting hard again, and Ray takes a selfish moment to stare and feel pretty good about that.

Ray still can't totally trust that this is his. Fraser has been this unattainable thing for so long it seems… weird to see him standing here, his expression a collision of curiosity and quiet bravery. With no barriers between them and nowhere to hide, this can be nothing but intentional, and Ray recognises a little terror at being so open along with the thrill that this is what Fraser wants too.

Fraser cups Ray's cheek and kisses him softly, and Ray puts his hand behind Fraser's neck and holds him as they take the couple of paces needed to get them to the bed. They go down slowly together, moving carefully and deliberately. Fraser takes the time to kiss a random path up Ray's body, his lowest rib, the crook of his elbow, the notch of his collarbone.

Ray smoothes his hands, finding the places on Fraser's skin that make him shift or breathe harder or pause. This is like nothing Ray has ever had before with a guy. He's never taken minutes to touch another man's nipples and feel the difference in the skin texture, or kiss another guy's neck and map every curve of muscle and tendon beneath his lips. He is stilled by the way his hand fits exactly over the rounded strength of Fraser's shoulder.

The energy that grows between them is wide and powerful and enduring, and Ray has never felt so high while being stone cold sober. Fraser kisses the sharp angle of Ray's hip, then looks up at him for direction or permission or something, but Ray knows what this level of intensity needs and nothing else will do.

He rolls slightly and reaches into his nightstand, finding what he wants by touch. He drops a condom and a small plastic bottle on the ruined sheets and lays back. His eyes are acclimated to the darkness now, and he sees Fraser's gaze flick from the supplies to Ray's face, surprised. Ray watches him steadily, trying to tell him without words that this is good, this is significant. Ray doesn't do this often, and it has been a few years since he's known anyone well enough to even think about it.

Fraser's surprise has been replaced with wariness, his fingers idly stroke the inside of Ray's thigh as he thinks. "Ray," he says softly. "What does…?"

Ray bends his knee, sliding his foot up the sheets and lifting his hips a little to widen his stance. Fraser becomes perfectly still, mesmerised by Ray's movement. His breathing quickens, and his fingers slow, and his silence drags out until Ray begins to freak out that he's misread.

"Only if you want to," Ray murmurs, wishing he wasn't quite so exposed, but he can't take it back now the offer is out there.

"God, yes," Fraser blurts and surges up the bed to press hot, hungry kisses on Ray's smiling mouth. "Tell me," he mumbles against Ray's lips. "Tell me how."

"Start slow, okay? Fingers first," Ray tells him, relieved, watching Fraser pick up the bottle uncertainly and pop the cap.

Fraser coats his fingers, rubbing the lube between his fingertips as if he's testing it. He leans on one hand and kisses Ray's belly and hip and thigh, slow and intent, like there's a secret written there. Ray slows his breathing and stares up at the ceiling as Fraser's big, cool fingers brush against his hole.

The first finger goes in easily. Fraser takes his time and moves slow enough that Ray has to grit his teeth or demand more. He pushes in, pulls half way out, then pushes in again at a different angle, learning, reading Ray's body.

"It's good, Frase," Ray says, and Fraser pulls out and lines up a second finger. Ray feels that one. It stretches him and sets off harmonic echoes in his belly and his thighs, pressure and full and good. He asks for more, pushing through faster, knowing what's coming is going to be even better, and Fraser obliges, the burn of it bright and real and welcomed.

Ray looks down to see the concentration he knows will be on Fraser's face, but he hasn't expected the wide, open vulnerability as he watches his fingers moving into Ray's body. He twists his wrist, his fingertips sweeping inside in a way that Ray can feel _everywhere_.

Ray fumbles beside himself for the condom, pushing it down the bed toward Fraser in an unspoken plea. Fraser's eyes track from Ray's ass, seemingly unwilling to look away, to the condom, to Ray's face.

Fraser withdraws his fingers slowly, leaving Ray with a cold empty feeling. He reaches out and takes the packet, and Ray grasps Fraser's fingers, squeezing them reassuringly, and Fraser's hand lingers accepting the gesture.

He tears the packet and pulls out the condom, rolling it onto his cock with exaggerated care. Ray knows better than to interrupt a man while he's taking a private minute, and he waits patiently while Fraser uses more of the lube to slick himself.

Ray can feel Fraser's hand is shaking as he lays it on Ray's thigh, and Ray feels a wave of tenderness so powerful it makes his throat close up. He pushes himself to sit up, his legs bracketing Fraser's, and runs his hands up Fraser's hairy thighs, kissing his lips softly and deeply.

"It'll be good, I promise," Ray whispers, quickly pressing his forehead to Fraser's, and laying back again slowly. Fraser smiles, then knees himself closer into Ray's hips, tracing his fingers up Ray's balls and dick.

"Like this," Ray tells him, lifting his knee and putting it over Fraser's big, smooth shoulder. Fraser's skin is warm and solid against his calf, and he flexes his back and thigh, scooting himself closer to Fraser, feeling the tremor run through Fraser's body when the head of his cock brushes against Ray's ass for the first time.

The bluntness of Fraser's dick as he pushes inside is more uncomfortable than he remembers, and Ray tries hard not to let it show on his face. He hooks a hand beneath his other knee and opens himself up, making it easier for Fraser and for himself. Fraser grabs Ray's thigh and knees forward a little more, taking some of Ray's weight onto his lap.

That eases out the strain in Ray's back, and he can relax, concentrate on letting Fraser fill him up, and he slides in the rest of the way easily.

"Ray." Fraser goes still, taking tiny gasps of air, fighting not to move, and Ray should maybe let the guy get used to the feel of being held somewhere so tight, but he can't. He can't.

He tightens his thighs, pulls himself off Fraser's cock and quickly back on, their skin slapping softly together, slick and hot. Fraser makes a choked noise, but Ray knows how good this is going to be, and he does it again.

"God," Ray whispers, knowing how wrecked he sounds, and Fraser's thighs tighten as he prepares to pull out. "No, don't. It's good. It's so good."

The tense muscles of Fraser's legs jump and twitch as he begins to push in himself, and Ray grabs for his free hand which is twisted in the sheets by Ray's hip. Somehow they twine their fingers together, and Fraser takes this as the final proof he needs, because he lets go.

His movements become smooth and flowing, his hips circle as he finds a rhythm for them, and he lifts Ray's thigh further still, so he can push higher and deeper with each thrust.

They get louder, showing more of the honesty that Ray's been craving, both gasping in loud, wet breaths and low-throated moans. They move together in concert now, and it's easy, so easy for Ray to get what he needs from Fraser and for him to read in return what Fraser wants. And the longer they rock together, the more in tune their needs become, until Ray reaches down between them and fists his cock, their harmony fracturing, their bodies spasming, and only their enduring connection remains as they begin to break apart.

Fraser's watching him when he opens his eyes. He doesn't know how long they slept, but his thigh is numb where Fraser's leg is laid across him.

"I almost didn't have this," Fraser says immediately, then looks embarrassed.

Ray yawns, scratches his belly where his come has dried. He gives Fraser a minute to regroup. "You okay, Frase?"

"I… yes. I'm sorry, Ray, I just… it occurred me while you were asleep that I would have missed this had it not been for an unusual set of circumstances that might never have presented themselves if it hadn't been for…"

"Nah," Ray says, cutting Fraser off before he talks himself into a stroke. "I had a plan."

There's a short silence. "You did?" Fraser asks flatly, disbelief and an invitation to tease unmistakable

"Yeah, I was just waiting for the, you know, optimum moment."

Optimum.

Damn, he needs to keep a closer eye on that stealth Canadian.

Ray closes his eyes and smiles.

He's all over that.

Fin


End file.
